


Where Dwell the Cunning

by PoliticallyObsessedScholar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Draco is a sarcastic bullying little snot and I love him for it, M/M, child abuse mention, he's also quite clever, strategically ignores HBP, tried to keep him in character as much as possible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:16:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8616469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoliticallyObsessedScholar/pseuds/PoliticallyObsessedScholar
Summary: "Oh and where are you staying these holidays, Potter? Slumming it with the muggles I suppose? We'll be entertaining of course, very high society. Lots of guests, powerful people, designer robes. Not that you'd know, hanging out with riff-raff like Weasleys and mudbloods"





	

Sixth year ended without anything particularly exciting happening, his father and other Death Eaters had broken out of Azkaban and the Dark Lord was clearly consolidating his power base but that was pretty much it. Following his customary visit to the Golden Prat's carriage, filled with his customary derogatory hints (he had a certain flair) - "oh and where are you staying these holidays, Potter? Slumming it with the muggles I suppose?  _We'll_  be entertaining of course, very high society. Lots of guests, powerful people, designer robes. Not that you'd know, hanging out with riff-raff like Weasleys and mudbloods" - and then returned home to shut himself in his bedroom. He'd spent weeks crafting that sentence, which had forced him to execute evasive manouevers and had succeeded in its purpose. It was almost too easy really, as he left he'd heard Potter complain at length about evil Malfoys hosting Dark Lords in their home.

Draco really couldn't stomach the thought of Voldemort winning. He  _liked_  things the way they were. At the moment, he was right at the top of the pecking order. He was a pureblood, a Malfoy, reasonably attractive, and very wealthy. He was free to insult whoever he liked and, honestly, sometimes things just needed to be said. He was  _powerful._  He certainly didn't want to bend at the knee for anyone, his year under Umbridge had taught him that much, and if the Dark Lord won then there was always the risk that he would end up right at the bottom of things. Which was a very distressing thought.

Ok, so in the past he'd only given hints if he thought the reactions would be funny ("dogging your footsteps" was a classic: so lame, so obvious, so effective) but he'd chosen his side now damn-it and if they won he would have plenty of Pensieve memories to support him. A story of utter terror ("really, what else could I do?" wide eyes looking up at the questioner "you know what my... my father is like! I couldn't... I couldn't let him find out" trail off, valiantly try not to cry) to spice things up and bam he'd be free. Of course he would also need to carefully avoid dirtying his hands but he could just go ahead and conveniently faint at the first sight of blood and he'd be shuffled off into research or potions - which he could then subtly sabotage. 

He'd also left a completely fictional journal in his private Gringotts vault which contained a story of escalating fear and terror across the last two years, a fabricated belief that his family would sacrifice him for power, a copy of the letter his father had sent in fifth year telling him to join Umbridge, strategic compliments to everyone likely to be on Dumbledore's side, and references to sneaky consumption of "fascinating" muggle art. It wasn’t completely untrue, just slightly exaggerated. It payed to be thorough.

Lying on his bed, staring at his Quidditch posters, Draco felt smugly self-satisfied until he was interrupted from his musings by the sudden appearance of a house-elf.

“Young Master Draco is being reminded that it is being time to dress for dinner. Master Lucius is having guests” it said before vanishing out of sight as silently as it came.

Groaning and mumbling to himself about the indignity of being forced to entertain Azkaban escapees, Draco went to the wardrobe and chose for himself robes of finest Acromantula silk. They were emerald green, buttoned up to his neck and then flaring out slightly at his hips, and made him look absolutely astounding. Which - quite apart from the fact that they were the fanciest and most expensive robes he owned - was why he chose them.

When he arrived in the ballroom downstairs, hair perfectly coiffed, he looked the picture of the proper pureblood heir. Certainly his mother thought so if her approving nod was any indication. Snapping his fingers to summon a house-elf, he daintily picked up the proffered glass of Veela wine, and made his way towards his favourite lounging spot. The art of the lounge was underrated nowadays, when done well it allowed you to completely ignore everyone around you but still look engaged and amusing. When executed with supreme skill, people came to _you_ and when the night ended you’d be declared the absolute soul of the party without having done a single thing. The trick was never to lounge in the same spot for more than twenty minutes, otherwise it was perfectly obvious that you were lounging and that was an insult to the host.

It was while he was passing Auntie Bellatrix conversing with that thug Rowle that his father appeared at his side and grasped his arm.

“I’m to present you before dinner” he said and then led him towards a private room, hidden behind a tapestry, off the side of the ballroom. In the past it was used by the Malfoys if they needed to retreat from a party, now it appeared to be hosting the Dark Lord himself. Mentally fortifying himself, Draco followed his father through the door.

***

Voldemort was seated on a comfortable arm chair in the corner of the room, a bottle of red wine was on a small table next to him. The room was lit by a fireplace along the opposite wall and could almost have appeared cozy. It probably was cozy usually but the presence of the Dark Lord tilted the balance completely to menacing.

“My Lord, apologies for intruding, but I have come to present my son”

Draco did as was rather obviously required and gave a short, stiff bow. When he came up, just before he let his head fall meekly to look at the floor, he saw the Dark Lord looking him up and down with a lazy sort of appreciation. Which was a tad disconcerting and would have made him reconsider his rejection of the ‘run away to Australia’ plan he’d discarded for its negative repercussions should his side not win if he hadn’t thought it was an act designed to unsettle them.

“You know, it’s rather fascinating isn’t it, Lucius?” came the rather perplexing question from the front

“Indeed, my Lord”

Was he missing something? Had he dropped out of the conversation while he thought about Australia and missed something vital?

“How he trusts you so completely. Followed you like a lamb to the slaughter”

The blood in his arms had turned to ice. As the Dark Lord stood laconically and moved towards him, he could feel the cold crawling closer and closer through his body and to his heart.

“Indeed, my Lord”

He was right in front of him now - a hand reached out and tilted his head to look him in the eye.

“Your father came to me after he was released from Azkaban. He said that he knew he deserved to be punished for his failures and he had come to offer me an apology and face his sentence. He said he had a beautiful son, a son who he would gladly offer to warm my bed. He said everything he had already belonged to me, and that included you. Isn’t that right, Lucius?”

“Yes, my Lord”

“Your father thought you would serve as some kind of slave. I want you to know, for the rest of your life, that your father was willing to sell you for power. However, Lord Voldemort is a generous man. You, are a clever boy. I have heard from your mother and the parents of your friends that you are witty and cultured. It would be such a waste to turn you into a slave”

The hand had dropped away from his chin now but Draco’s entire body still felt like ice. He suspected that he had a new boggart. The Dark Lord was looking at him though, just looking, but Draco knew it was far more than that. With supreme effort he forced himself to respond the only way he knew for sure would not get him killed or tortured or, for that matter, enslaved.

“Thank you, my Lord”

There was amusement written all over Voldemorts’ body now and when he spoke the words were at once completely obvious and completely unexpected.

“I have decided to elevate the Malfoys. Your family has shown such dedication to me, you will not be my slave - you will be my consort. There will be certain rules, of course,”

_Of course_

“but I’m sure that won’t be a problem”

He spread his arms wide, and as his father started effusively thanking the Dark Lord for his generosity, Draco stayed silent.

There was a part of him that was shrieking about how he could have been tanning on a beach in Perth right now if he hadn’t been so bloody arrogant, and another part that was laughing hysterically about that fact that his false journal was becoming truer by the second. As the Dark Lord started to cast a binding spell which would prevent him from having sex with anyone but him and expounded at length on all the different ways that his life would be controlled, Draco thought that this memory would be felix felixus at trial.

Later, when he’d begged off dinner with a headache, been led to his new quarters, and somehow managed to keep himself upright all the way there, he saw himself briefly in a mirror. His face was snow white, his hands were shaking, and he looked suddenly very small.


End file.
